


A Little Care and Concern

by mystiri1



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Community: help_nz, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-28
Updated: 2011-05-28
Packaged: 2017-10-19 21:04:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystiri1/pseuds/mystiri1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tseng was thinking that he could go home, go to bed and be recovered by Monday, with nobody the wiser.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Care and Concern

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyNightRunner (AssortedGeekery)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AssortedGeekery/gifts).



The headache was nothing extraordinary; Tseng felt it was miracle he didn't end every day with a headache, given some of the people he worked with. It started as a dull throb just before lunch, but it was preceded by a meeting with Reno, and he disregarded it for precisely that reason.

By mid-afternoon, he felt stiff and overheated, his joints aching and his sinuses blocked. He did his best not to let on, because that would be showing weakness and he had a reputation to maintain, both with the Turks and within ShinRa. It might have been easier if he just shut his office door, but he never did that unless it was for a meeting and if he did so now, then every Turk in the office would suspect something was wrong. (In any other office, an 'open-door' policy meant that subordinates could come and discuss matters with their boss. Tseng knew of several other departments within ShinRa that proclaimed this, but none that actually practised it. In his own case, it was sheer practicality. If one of the Turks found potentially useful information, of course they were going to bring it to him, because that was what Turks did. But physically leaving his office door open allowed him to keep an ear on the rest of the department, and hopefully avert trouble before it eventuated. Like many possible Reno-inspired headaches.)

Conveniently, it was the end of the week; while he would normally be considering the paperwork and other such things left undone, and planning to come in to work (mostly) uninterrupted in a much quieter office, today he was thinking that he could go home, go to bed and be recovered by Monday, with nobody the wiser.

Tseng was quite certain that he had managed to pull this off – he even out-waited the inevitable Friday five o'clock exodus, doing paperwork at his desk as if nothing was different from any other week – but at 5.33pm, his plan developed an unexpected complication.

The complication was tall, dressed in black leather and held a sheaf of papers in one hand. He walked straight into Tseng's office without hesitation, ignoring the aura of 'too busy – keep away' Tseng had been trying to project all afternoon.

“Tseng. Lars and Minet were in Corel on a mission this week, and picked up on some strange rumours you might want to look into.” And with that out of the way, Sephiroth asked, “Are you planning on working late tonight?”

It wasn't, Tseng mused, that Sephiroth couldn't be subtle when the situation called for it. It was just that he didn't see the point in wasting time. “No, not tonight,” he admitted. “But I believe I will have too much on this weekend to indulge in more... recreational pursuits.”

Sephiroth frowned at this clearly unexpected response. If it wasn't for the fact that he didn't really have time for a relationship and all the that went with it, Tseng would be slightly offended at being considered such a sure thing. But he didn't, and his... arrangement with Sephiroth had proven more than satisfactory in the past. It was just inconvenient at the present moment.

Then those green eyes narrowed at him. “You're unwell.”

“I'm fine,” Tseng said firmly.

Sephiroth didn't take the hint. “Your face is flushed and your eyes look glassy. Your voice is slightly nasal. Also, your breathing pattern is uneven, which doesn't make sense if all you've been doing is sitting in your office completing paperwork. You are ill.”

“Fine. I'm ill. And I will be going home to bed shortly, where I will stay until I feel better, and in the meantime I shouldn't have to explain that I do not want it all over the building that the head of the Turks is ill.” The words were snappish, and Tseng immediately wished them back. His current condition was no excuse for indulging his temper, and he did a quick mental headcount to reassure himself that yes, there was nobody else left in the office to hear him acting like a cranky two-year-old.

Sephiroth didn't seem offended. “Of course not. Here are the reports for the Corel mission, and a few others you might find interesting.” He placed the papers on Tseng's desk, then turned around and walked out.

Tseng resisted the urge to throw something after him. Perhaps their arrangement was about convenience, but a little polite concern wouldn't have cost Sephiroth any more than a few extra words.

He let out a frustrated huff. It was just as well Sephiroth had left, because this illness was clearly affecting his ability to think clearly. He'd managed to read less than two pages in the past half hour, and hopefully none of the items remaining on his desk would prove time-critical, because he was calling it a night and going home.

  


* * * * *

Waking up groggy and disoriented, it took Tseng several long minutes to realise that it was the sounds of somebody moving about in his apartment that had disturbed him. He kept his movements surreptitious as his hand slid under the pillow for the knife that he kept there, listening carefully, but while they were in his apartment, it readily became apparent that they were not in his room. Judging from the noises he was hearing, they were in his kitchen instead , where they would be unable to see him. After waiting a few moments while the noises continued unabated, he reached for the gun on the night stand. It didn't sound like they were tossing the place, but there was somebody in his kitchen, and there really shouldn't be anybody here but him.

He stood up, and the room spun. Suddenly the existence of an intruder became much more alarming, because Tseng really wasn't sure he could deal with it. His eyes were blurry, his head was pounding, and his knees seemed to have disappeared completely, going by the way his legs felt like they were about to collapse from underneath him. He took several deep breaths, one of which rattled alarmingly and nearly sent him into a coughing fit, then tried to walk – quietly – to the kitchen door.

“You probably shouldn't be out of bed,” Sephiroth said calmly. “And I'm not certain you should be fooling around with guns when your hand is shaking like that.”

Tseng looked down and swore. His hand was shaking, possibly because the gun felt ten times heavier than usual. He let it fall to his side, and scowled at his 'intruder'. “How did you get in here?”

“I picked the lock. One of your subordinates – the red-headed one, Reno? - taught one of mine. I learned in self-defence, as Fair became much less smug about picking locks when it turned out others could do it to him, too.”

“The security system?” Tseng asked, already plotting some way to make Reno's life hell come Monday morning.

“I've seen you disarm it before. Several times.”

He would need to change the codes, Tseng noted, because it was completely unacceptable that somebody else knew them, and possibly add a few more security measures. It had been some time since he last upgraded, and he'd clearly allowed himself to become complacent if an amateur could bypass the system. And there was still the question of what Sephiroth was doing in his kitchen... cooking.

“Why are you here?” It was a little more bewildered than he would have liked, but it wasn't every day that Tseng woke up to find the SOLDIER General had broken into his home with the apparent intentions of indulging his culinary leanings.

“You're ill. And as you refuse to go to the infirmary because you do not wish to be in a position of vulnerability around people you don't trust, that means you have nobody to take care of you while you're unable to do so for yourself.” Sephiroth added something to a pot on the stove and crossed to the kitchen table, which held several shopping bags. “Here. I bought supplies.”

He started removing things from the bags, and Tseng's table rapidly began to resemble a pharmacy. “You bought all of that?” Tseng asked weakly, looking in amazement at the stacks of assorted cold medicines and tablets.

“No, I simply went to the infirmary and asked where they kept them. Nobody asked what I was wanting them for, or even objected to me taking them. If I went back for more,” Sephiroth mused, “I could probably make a killing on the black market. You should look into that.”

In all likelihood, the infirmary staff had been too intimidated by Sephiroth's presence to ask. “The way gossip travels around ShinRa, everybody in the building will know by Monday,” Tseng sighed.

Sephiroth looked smug. “I'm hoping for sooner than that. And don't worry; they're scarcely going to associate my visit with you possibly being ill. Why would they?”

This was true. Despite the incredible efficiency of the ShinRa rumour mill, nobody seemed to have any idea that the head of the Turks and the head of SOLDIER were sleeping together. If anything, Sephiroth and Tseng's normal interactions with each other in the course of business had led to speculation that they were bitter enemies – or, at the very least, rivals. It was certainly true that SOLDIERs and Turks were known to debate (sometimes physically) which department was better, but they also worked together on a regular basis. No SOLDIER wanted to go into a situation with poor intelligence, and the Turks appreciated that sometimes a problem needed a bigger hammer. Even if they hadn't been able to get along, Sephiroth and Tseng would have maintained civil relations for the sake of their respective departments.

Perhaps it was simply that all the other department heads were ready to shove their knives into each others' back at the earliest opportunity.

“I assure you I don't need that much medication. In fact, I would prefer not to take any.”

“The dosages are tiny. This one here -” Sephiroth picked up a packet at random, “- only has 325mg of acetaminophen per tablet!”

“They're not intended for anyone with SOLDIER metabolisms,” Tseng pointed out irritably. “The correct adult dose is listed on the back of the packet.”

“Hmph.” Sephiroth read the small print there with a dubious frown. “Anyway, I might not have much experience of being ill, but I do know that these are supposed to let you get better faster, and I should think you would appreciate that.”

Tseng scowled. “It's probably just a cold. There is no cure, merely drugs that ameliorate the symptoms. And most of them leave you drowsy or put you to sleep.”

“Sleeping conserves your body's resources to fight off infection,” Sephiroth said firmly. “And I will be right here, which I think should be sufficient defence for even your advanced paranoia.”

Eyes widened. “You're staying?”

Sephiroth shrugged. “I have nothing better to do. It should be interesting. I've never had a cold myself.”

Tseng wondered if he trusted his aim enough to shoot Sephiroth somewhere painful but essentially harmless. In the foot, perhaps.

“You should go back to bed,” Sephiroth continued. Tseng gave him a hard look, and decided that maybe, in this case, he was right.

Maybe when he woke up, this would all prove to be some weird fever dream.  


  


* * * * *

He judged that he hadn't slept long when Sephiroth came into the bedroom and deliberately woke him. “You need to eat,” the general announced. “Then you can take some pills. I chose the ones I thought you'd find the least objectionable.” He handed over the box.

Tseng squinted at the fine print, and gave in. At least these pills wouldn't leave him practically unconscious, and they would help clear his airways so he could sleep easier. “What am I eating?” he asked warily.

“Lentil soup. The store had several different varieties, but this seemed to have the best nutritional value. You need to replace fluids lost to fever.” Again, Sephiroth seemed more pleased with himself than anything.

“You've been researching,” Tseng accused.

Sephiroth shrugged and changed the subject by holding out a thermometer. “Here. Put this under your tongue.”

“Aren't you supposed to be wearing a skirt?”

“What?”

“If you offer me a sponge bath...” Tseng said darkly, then reconsidered. Then he reconsidered again, because while the spirit might have been willing, the flesh was definitely weak. Still, the image of Sephiroth in a nurse's uniform was certainly amusing – or would be later, when he didn't feel quite so miserable. He took the thermometer with a sigh and stuck it in his mouth.

Sephiroth hovered.

“That should be long enough,” he announced after several long moments. He tugged it out and looked at the reading. Then he frowned. “What exactly is your normal temperature?”

Sephiroth, Tseng knew, ran hot; a constant, fever-like heat that all but radiated from his skin. It figured that he would have no concept of normal regarding this, either. “Never mind. If it goes down over the next two days, then you'll know I'm getting better.”

“Of course,” Sephiroth nodded, and Tseng realised he'd just tacitly agreed to the other man staying for the rest of the weekend.

At least the soup tasted good.

* * * * *

By mid-afternoon Saturday he wasn't feeling quite so sanguine about the situation. In fact, having consumed his third bowl of it for lunch, he was quite thoroughly sick of lentil soup, especially when he was sure that Sephiroth was going to serve it for dinner as well. Perhaps he could head him off with the suggestion of some nice dry toast, instead.

He was also tired of sleeping. He didn't have any real energy, because his sleep wasn't particularly restful, and it was only the medication he'd taken with lunch that allowed him to drift off again.

But he was awake now, and wondering if he should get up and do something, because just lying there was slowly driving him insane. But his last trip to the bathroom – all of two hours previous – had left him dizzy and trembling, which was scarcely promising.

Sephiroth, having decided that tending a sick person required close proximity, had dragged an armchair into the corner of the bedroom and was sitting there, reading. That didn't seem too strenuous, and there was probably something on the bookshelf in the living room he could read. He was trying to remember what when the sound of Sephiroth's cell phone distracted him.

Sephiroth glanced at the caller id, then put it to his ear. “Professor.” The word was short, impatient.

Hojo. Who was apparently quite worked up about something, as Tseng could almost make out the words he was yelling into the phone from the other side of the room.

In response, Sephiroth stretched out in the chair, lounging a little more comfortably. “I suppose the reason I took all those drugs from the infirmary could be that I was sick, Professor. Except that would mean that your work isn't quite so wonderful as you like to brag it is, doesn't it? If some measly virus could lay me low.”

The screaming reached a higher pitch.

Sephiroth smirked. “You're right. I think I may have developed a prescription drug habit, instead.” Then he faked a surprisingly realistic cough. “It would take a lot of drugs for someone of my metabolism to get 'high', after all. But you know how it is to experiment. Trial and error. I'm sure I'll figure it out.”

The ranting continued.

“Either way, Professor, it is the weekend, and I am not currently on company property. I guess you'll have to wait for Monday to find out if you failed-” Another cough, and then he continued as if he'd been saying it all along, “If I'm ill or not.”

More yelling, but Sephiroth cut it off. “Goodbye, Professor Hojo.” Cough. Then, with his voice slightly hoarse, “Enjoy the rest of your weekend.” He shut the cellphone with a decisive click.

“Now I get it,” Tseng said, happier to have a motive he understood for Sephiroth's sudden 'care'. “You enjoyed that.”

“Didn't you?” Sephiroth asked, eyebrow arched in inquiry.

Tseng snorted, which unfortunately set off a real coughing fit. Sephiroth crossed the room, and handed him a glass of water from the night stand when he finally stopped. Tseng took several long mouthfuls, then gave it back, relaxing against his pillows with a sigh.

“At least with me out of the office, he can't ask the Turks to hunt you down.”

  


* * * * *

By the following day, Tseng was feeling well enough to get up and have a shower. It was something of a relief, because he was quite conscious of the fact that he was sticky with dried sweat, and his hair lank from fever. He left the bathroom to discover that Sephiroth had changed his bedding, and was in the process of cooking something more substantial than soup for lunch.

“I didn't realise you knew how to cook,” Tseng said as he sat down at the table.

“Have you ever seen what a military mess hall considers food?” Sephiroth asked. “It was in my own best interests to learn at least a few meals I could cook for myself.”

“The cafeteria's probably not much better,” Tseng conceded. And Sephiroth was a good cook, probably because he was as much a perfectionist with this as with other things.

Once they were finished eating, Sephiroth gave him an assessing look. “So are you fully recovered now?”

Tseng considered it. “Yes, I think so. Which is good, as I will be able to return to work tomorrow as usual.”

Sephiroth nodded. “Good.” Then he rounded the table to pull Tseng out of his chair, and back towards the bedroom.

Tseng needed another shower, later.


End file.
